


Faramir's Choice

by claudia603



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-02
Updated: 2010-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-08 15:52:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia603/pseuds/claudia603
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo has been hurt by his rough treatment by Faramir's men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Faramir's Choice

I saw the glimmer of tears in the unnaturally large blue eyes of the fair, willowy halfling as his hands were yanked roughly behind him and bound. He did not plead or struggle now, though he had put up a fight with Damrod until the man had stilled him by flinging him to the ground like a doll. Now the halfling looked dazed and disoriented. The watery blue eyes disappeared as the blindfold was pushed roughly over his face.

“Let us start at once,” I said. “It is a several hour march to Henneth Annun.”

I heard neither squeak nor grunt from our prisoners, though I could not stop thinking about them.

“Who do you suppose they are?” I asked Mablung quietly. “They do not look ill-favored to me, though that skulking creature does, and he has given us the slip yet again.”

Mablung kept his voice low. “I have heard tales of halflings who live in holes in the north, but these prisoners we have taken are far from home. They have no doubt been bought by the Enemy and are working for orcs, spying for them.”

“Orc spies?” I said, not believing it. Something has brought these halflings so far from home, into the woods of Ithilien, so near the dark land.

A swift movement caught my eye and I turned to see Damrod sling the delicate halfling over his shoulder like a sack of onions.

“He has collapsed, Captain Faramir.”

“Our pace may be too swift for them. Let us slow it down for the other one.”

The rounder hobbit frantically twisted his blindfolded head behind him.

“Mr. Frodo?” he called in a frightened voice. “Mr. Frodo, are you all right?”

“Stay still!” His guide said, gripping his shoulders more firmly and pushing him forward.

“Please,” the halfling said. “He’s already so weary. Please don’t hurt him!”

I wanted to say something -- the concerned agony in his voice was painful to listen to -- but I could not, not in front of my men. At least not until I had satisfied my curiosity as to why these halflings were in this land. If they were spies of the Enemy, then they deserved to suffer, and they could rot in the dungeons of Minas Tirith for all I cared.

We reached Henneth Annun, and my men set the two halflings on the ground before me, yanking off their blindfolds and unbinding their hands. The delicate one, now conscious but clearly unwell, sagged against his stocky friend who put his arm around him in a protective manner.

“Please help him,” he said, his cheeks flushed. There was sharp suspicion in his eyes, but his concern for his friend gave him the courage to confront his captor.

“My men tell me you are orc spies,” I said, ignoring his plea. In times of war, one had to be particularly vigilant. The Enemy might know that my heart was easily moved by pity. I would not disappoint my father in this matter. I had already gone against orders by not bidding these prisoners slain. That I could not do. My heart told me there was more to their presence in Ithilien than met the eye.

“Now wait just a moment,” the stocky halfling said, his brow furrowing in anger. How open these halflings were with their every emotion!

“If you are not spies, then who are you? What are you doing in our land?”

The ailing halfling pulled away from his friend, trying to stand tall and bravely before me. He was breathing rapidly, and his face had a clammy sheen to it. He was truly ill and would need to be looked to. Having made the decision not to slay him, I would not have him die in our camp.

“We are hobbits of the Shire,” he said in an elegant voice that reminded me of the elves. “Frodo Baggins is my name, and this is Samwise Gamgee.”

Sam had run at us with his small sword drawn as if he thought he had a chance against a band of soldiers all twice his height. I had to admit that I admired his selfless courage.

“Your bodyguard?” I asked with a grim smile.

“His gardener,” Sam said, looking at me in open scorn. Frodo was no longer listening. His eyes had taken on a faraway look, one that I recognized from watching soldiers who had just been dealt a deadly blow in battle but were in too much shock to realize it. Frodo staggered, and then sagged to his knees. He held his lower back with trembling hands. Sam was immediately on his knees beside him, holding him, looking at me with eyes bright with accusation.

“Please, Captain Faramir, he’s sick. He wasn’t sick before you came upon us, just tired…weary beyond hope…not eating or sleeping, he’s not, but this is different. I think he’s really sick.”

“Follow me,” I said. Perhaps after the halflings rested and had something to eat, I could question them more.

Sam helped Frodo move into the back of a cave where I bid them wait. Frodo lay on his back and stared at the ceiling in a pained gaze.

“I will bring food and drink for you,” I said “There are guards posted outside both for your safety and mine.”

“Do you have anything for pain?” Sam asked, his voice soft with pleading. His hand was on Frodo’s brow, and Frodo let out a small whimper, gasping for breath.

“What ails him?” I asked, my heart sinking. We had very few healing herbs. “Do you know?”

“He wasn’t sick before you came along,” Sam repeated, again turning accusing eyes to me.

“It’s my back,” Frodo said, opening his eyes. Such eyes were unheard of among mortals. So blue, filled with purity and fragile weariness.

I shook myself out of my thoughts and knelt beside him. “Let us have a look.” Sam tensed as I gently rolled Frodo onto his stomach. Frodo clutched the stone ground until his knuckles turned pale, gasping in new pain. I moved his cloak out of the way and gently lifted his shirt and vest so that I could see his bare back. I gasped at the sight of the angry black bruise that covered half his lower back.

“Was he injured?” I asked.

“One of your men threw him down hard,” Sam said, his eyes hardening at the sight of Frodo’s injury. “I saw it.”

“I think I hit a stone when I fell—“ Frodo managed.

“You didn’t fall, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said hoarsely. “That man lifted you and flung you down like you was nothing.”

I felt a surge of anger at Damrod, who thought nothing of using his massive strength to fling one so delicate to the ground. He could have easily subdued Frodo with much less force.

I sighed in dismay. These halflings should be sent immediately to Gondor to answer to my father, but I would not have Frodo die on the way. I would need to treat him myself.

I moved the injured halfling’s pack under his feet so as to raise them above the level of his heart as I had been taught to do for shock. He was breathing rapidly and his face was far too pale, not an encouraging sign. I had witnessed far too many die from shock of injury or internal bleeding, though perhaps Frodo’s case was not as serious, as the blow had not hit his tender abdomen. His eyes fluttered open, and he recoiled at the sight of me so close, yet under the surface of weary fear, his eyes revealed trust.

“There is…” The halfling struggled to speak, wincing. “There is something familiar about you.”

“Shhh, do not speak now.” I turned to Sam. “I will leave you to gather some items – blankets, food, herbs that will help him. Also, we have here in Henneth Annun a barrel we immerse in an icy cold pool, and therein we store blocks of ice. I wish to put ice on his wound, to slow the internal bleeding.”

“Thank you,” Sam whispered, his eyes softening with gratitude. These halfings, despite what they had experienced, were too quick to trust. I felt a twinge of guilt. I was not finished questioning them, and they were still prisoners of Gondor. I had not decided their fate, nor would I until I could question them more thoroughly.

Damrod stood at attention as I approached him. “Captain?”

I kept my voice soft but stern. “There was no reason to exert such force on your prisoner. You have injured the halfling nearly to his death.”

“I did nothing to harm him, Captain, with all respect,” Damrod said. “I only strove to subdue him, as he was fighting me like a wild animal. And if he is a spy, why should it matter if he dies, as that is what his fate will be when he faces Lord Denethor?”

“That does not give us leave to act more like orcs and less like noble men of Gondor.”

Damrod flushed, but he kept his voice even. “You wish us to use mercy on those who are spies of an Enemy who has only the desire to destroy Gondor?”

“My heart tells me our prisoners are not spies.”

Damrod bowed, clearly unhappy by the reprimand. Even my father would not allow spies of Sauron to be mistreated in such a manner. Either an enemy was swiftly slain or he was taken to Minas Tirith for questioning – unharmed. Men of Gondor did not partake of torture.

I directed my men to bring food and water for the prisoners, gather some blankets, start water boiling, and bring a block of ice from the barrels in the pool. I gathered from our stash of healing herbs some that I knew helped to slow bleeding.

When I returned to the back of the cave, Sam was holding Frodo’s head on his lap. Frodo’s face was covered in sweat, and he was moaning weakly. He reeked of vomit.

“No, Sam,” I said, kneeling swiftly beside them. “You must put his head back down. His feet need to be above his heart.”

“Captain Faramir, he was just sick. He would have choked on it.”

My men brought the items I had requested, and I took the melting block of ice the size of a plate and slid it under Frodo’s back. The halfling shuddered, gasping, and his eyes filled with pained tears.

“This will be painful at first, Frodo, but you must relax. Soon your wound will numb.”

I piled the wool blankets over him, hoping to keep him warm despite the ice on his back.

“You are…from the White City,” Frodo said, and I was surprised when he grasped my hand with his small, cold hands. “I traveled with…one of my companions was a Man from Minas Tirith.”

“Shh, Mr. Frodo, don’t try and talk,” Sam said, and something urgent in the stocky halfling’s voice made me immediately suspicious.

Frodo shook violently, despite the heavy wool blankets. Despite the halfling’s agony, I had hope that he would recover. Deadly shock from internal bleeding often came swiftly after collapse, and instead of growing worse, his eyes appeared to be losing the dull glaze. I was beginning to suspect that the injury to his back had not been the chief cause of his collapse, but the culmination of a chain of hurts and weariness.

“Easy, Frodo. I have some herbal tea that will help you relax and will slow down your heart.”

I had been initially anxious about the dose to give him, as he was the size of a child and I had only experience in treating grown men injured in battle. In the end I had estimated that he was approximately a third of my weight and so gave him a third of what I would give a man my size.

“Samwise, hold his head up, just enough so that I can tilt this cup to his lips.”

“Yes, Captain,” Sam said, as humbly as a young soldier under my command. I was moved by the trust in his voice, and I was suddenly certain that these halflings were not spies. I yearned to discover why they were so close to the land of the Enemy. Surely they did not come willingly. This ill, fragile halfling was too weary, too frightened. He had mentioned a companion from Gondor. Was it possible…? My brother had gone to Rivendell because of a dream that had echoed through our heads.

*And the Halfling forth shall stand…*

Could it be that Isildur’s Bane their reason for coming to Mordor? Could these small creatures be carrying the most powerful weapon in Middle earth?

Frodo smiled a little, his blue eyes watery with gratitude as I gently urged him to drink more of the tea.

“It is very good,” he said. “Is there honey in here? It reminds me of…in the Shire…in my country we often put honey in our tea.” He sipped more of the tea and managed a small smile. “Thank you, Captain Faramir. Thank you for helping me.”

“I must ask you, Frodo…” My heart beat more rapidly. “Did you…might you have known my brother Boromir?”

Frodo blanched, and the nearly serene trust evaporated, and began to breathe quickly. “Boromir?” he said. “Boromir was your brother?”

“Now Captain, sir, you’re getting him excited, and he’s not fit for it, not one bit!” Sam clutched his master’s hand, looking fearfully at me.

“You were a friend of Boromir’s?” I asked. The halflings still did not answer, but they stared at me in trepidation.

“Yes,” Frodo said. “For my part. We set off from Rivendell with seven companions, including your brother.”

He closed his eyes, still breathing rapidly, and I knew that I could not press him now with further questions in his weakened state. Later I would learn from him the nature of their quest and how they were connected to Isildur’s Bane. And dearest to my heart, what had happened to my brother.

“Fear not, Frodo.” I said, squeezing his shoulder. “While in my custody, no harm shall come to you. I will leave you now to sleep. I have left you food and drink. Two men will guard your sleeping area, and if you have need of me, call to them.”

Early the next morning, I checked on my prisoners. I was pleasantly surprised to find Frodo propped against the wall of the cave, a wool blanket draped around his shoulders, nibbling on a piece of cheese. He still looked weary, but color had returned to his cheeks.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

“Much better, Captain Faramir,” he said. “Your tea did wonders for the pain. Thank you.”

“I am glad to hear of it. Later today I must question you more, but for now, continue to rest.”

“Thank you, Captain Faramir,” Sam said, bowing his head, and I was again moved by his humble trust. “I can’t say as I can thank you enough for what you’ve done for Mr. Frodo.”

I left the halflings and sat before my unfolded map, contemplating Gondor’s desperate hour. Something about the small prisoners filled me with a hope I had not had in weeks, in months. As long as I could remember, the shadows had hovered over Minas Tirith, and as of late, my father’s hope had been washed over the falls of Rauros. But now Isildur’s Bane had come within my grasp, a chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality.

There was a purity in Frodo and Sam that lifted the shadows in my heart, and I could not deny the gladness in my heart when I saw Frodo mostly recovered this morning. I had not yet learned the role these halflings played, but I could not help but suspect that by saving Frodo’s life, I had already showed my quality.

  
END


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